Winter 1965 • Vol. XXVII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1965 |

Another Grandfather

Every generation tells Of how the good world died. How he went into the giant corn At night, leaving the dogs. Always they said it was the end Once and for all of America. Grandfather and curing tobacco. We picked the clumsy leaves Sweating. And piled them on sleds. Girls tied them in bunches And the bunches on poles. The poles Were hung in a log barn. He built fires underneath for days And stayed up with the thermometer. I was proud to be out there, but afraid Of his dogs and the size of the dark. A city child, down for the summer. When suddenly he walked into The twelve-foot wall of corn. Leaving the dogs. Firelight On the barn. The smell of Carolina. The stars making me lurch. Thirty years ago. And now Loud cantons night After night: America. America. He came back with watermelons But always I see him going Into the corn. And that order ending.

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